Rizzo’s Fire Read online

  “I remember,” Rizzo said.

  “Do you remember all the details, Sergeant? The fine print, if you will?”

  “I remember.”

  Papa Man sounded pleased. “Good, Joe. Very good. I’ll get to the point. One of my riders spent Saturday night partying in Brooklyn with an ex-wife or girlfriend or what ever. This particular rider isn’t known for his moderation, and there are now allegations of DWI, criminal possession of a controlled substance, and resisting arrest being made against him. More seriously, assault on an officer. He called me earlier from Central Booking and asked for my assistance. I think what he had in mind was an attorney, but I thought, ‘Hey, what about my old Brooklyn friend, Sergeant Rizzo? I bet he can help.’ Was I right, Joe? Can you help?”

  Rizzo let the man hear his sigh. “I believe our deal was, if one of your guys got jammed up over here, I’d take a look at it and see what I could do. That your memory, too?”

  “Yes. Exactly. So, you’ll take a look?”

  Rizzo glanced at the wall clock. “What time they lock the guy up?”

  “I think it was about three-thirty, four this morning.”

  “Which precinct?”

  “The Nine-Four, over in Greenpoint.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “We call him Zumba. He was born James Palmer.”

  “The arresting is probably doing the paperwork at Central Booking right now. I can get down there in about twenty minutes. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. It’s good to know you’re a man of honor who keeps his word.”

  “You know how this shit works, Papa,” Rizzo said. “I owe you. Period. Honor and words got nothin’ to do with any a this.”

  Rizzo could visualize the wolflike grin of the man. “Well, what ever, Joe. Just do what you can. Zumba can’t stand a fall on an assaulting-a-cop charge. It’d ruin any chance he may still have for the Citizen of the Year award, you know?”

  “Yeah, Papa. I can imagine. But remember, our deal was everybody has to be happy, not just you and this asshole. The arresting has to say okay to it. And if it’s already reached the A.D.A., he has to go for it, too. It could be a tough sell.”

  “Well, from my experience with Brooklyn, Central Booking is a busy little place on Sunday morning. I doubt this minor a matter has come to the district attorney’s attention yet. It’s just a cop, just a uniform involved. See what you can do.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” Rizzo said, then closed the phone, breaking the connection. He stood slowly, slipping on his overcoat and picking up the Impala keys.

  Downstairs he intercepted Priscilla, coffee and egg sandwich in her hands. He filled her in quickly.

  “Your old friend called,” he told her. “Papa Man.”

  “Damn,” she said. “What does the boss of the Hell’s Angels want with you on a Sunday freakin’ morning?”

  Rizzo twisted his lips. “Whaddya think he wants?”

  Memory dawned in her eyes. “Oh, he’s cashin’ that ticket from the meeting you, me, and Mike had with him last summer?”

  “Bingo,” Rizzo said touching a finger lightly to the tip of her nose. “I gotta run downtown to Central Booking. You stay here, hold the fort. It’s just you and me this tour. If a job does come in, stall it. If you absolutely gotta roll on it, take a uniform along. I’ll meet you at the job if you ain’t in the squad room when I get back.”

  “Okay, Joe. How long you figure you’ll be?”

  Rizzo shrugged. “Twenty minutes there, twenty back, twenty to sell the cop my story. Figure an hour, hour ten. Like that.”

  Priscilla smiled at him coyly. “Sure you don’t want me along? I can shake some ass, bat my eyes, grease the cop a little for you.”

  “No, you stay here where we both should be. Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and it’s a straight female cop and I can shake my own ass.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Just try not to throw your back out, Pops.”

  Rizzo shook his head and moved past Priscilla to the door.

  The Sunday-morning traffic was almost non ex is tent. As Rizzo drove toward the heart of Brooklyn, the downtown area, he considered the job at hand.

  Throughout his career, Rizzo had carefully and consistently established a deep well of gratitude and obligation among his fellow officers for favors he had rendered. He had done the same with the various citizens who peopled the shadowy world of day-to-day police business. As a result, he could reach out almost at will to virtually any area within the department and collect his payback in the form of expedited ser vice, specialized assistance, or influential intervention on his behalf—all repaid debts for accommodations he had once provided. Rizzo could reach just as deeply into the dark netherworld to mobsters and street criminals for similar help. It had been essential for his success.

  Now, as he sped along the Gowanus Expressway, he reflected on how, more and more, he found himself on the other end of this cynical, yet pragmatic, arrangement, rendering the payback, as was now the case. As retirements, transfers, and other attritions chipped at those in the department who owed him, and changing demographics altered the Six-Two, the pool of those Rizzo was indebted to seemed to grow proportionately.

  It was not, he realized, a healthy state of affairs.

  Just one more reason to retire, he thought. The more payback he rendered, and the less he received, the better the likelihood that someday it would all blow up in his face. Yet it remained an unavoidable function of the job, a one-hand-washing-the-other way of life for him. It was a minefield becoming more difficult and dangerous to navigate.

  Rizzo swung the Impala off the expressway and onto Atlantic Avenue. He made a mental note to discuss this morning’s mission in more detail with Priscilla later in the day. Though he was almost certain she understood the nature of the game, he couldn’t make assumptions. This morning’s job was the perfect example. The last thing Rizzo wanted was to lend assistance of a murky legal nature to a Hell’s Angel. Yet he was bound by the agreement he had entered into with Papa Man some months before. It was not, as Papa had misstated, a matter of honor. Not at all. It was simply a function of police business. Had he reneged, he would never again be able to reach out to the Angels should the need arise.

  And if he reneged often enough on his promises, word would eventually permeate the subculture of the streets, and Rizzo would no longer be trusted, no longer be able to gather the scraps of information, cooperation, and accommodations necessary to the successful plying of his trade.

  That’s what he needed to impress upon Priscilla. As a detective, she should never enter into an agreement she was not fully prepared to follow through on, regardless of how distasteful or questionable in nature. The time for high-minded scruples was before the deal was struck, not afterward.

  As he drove slowly along State Street, searching for a place to park in the area reserved for police and court officers, correction and probation personnel, he mulled it over.

  Yes, he would explain it to Priscilla, in case she hadn’t mastered it all during her ten years in uniform. She needed to know, and it was his responsibility to make sure she did.

  But what about Carol? Would he someday have to explain it all to her? Would that responsibility fall to him as well, or to some other cop, someone unknown to him. The street education of his youngest child entrusted to a stranger?

  Rizzo parked the car and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

  No way, he thought. No way would he let that happen.

  He turned and crossed State Street, heading for the secured police entrance at the rear of the Brooklyn Criminal Court house. He shook his mind clear of thoughts of Carol and turned once more to the task at hand.

  OFFICER FREDDY Clarton was a twenty-four-year veteran, currently assigned to the Ninety-fourth Precinct patrol unit, covering the old blue-collar Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint. In three months’ time, he would retire to the small North Carolina town where his grandparent
s and their parents had been born. Contained within the inner plastic sleeve of his uniform cap, he carried a small single sheet calendar. As each tour ended, he carefully placed a neat, red X over the date.

  “Eighty-one more days,” he said, as he sat sipping coffee with Rizzo on a small bench outside the holding pen area of Central Booking, located in the basement of the court house.

  “That’s great, Freddy,” Rizzo said. “I got about a year to go myself.”

  Clarton shook his head. “Too goddamned long, Sarge, too goddamned long.”

  “It’s the hand I got dealt,” Rizzo answered with a shrug.

  Clarton sipped his coffee, his eyes peering over the cup’s edge to Rizzo.

  “So, Sarge,” he said. “You wanna get down to business?”

  Rizzo had been glad to find that the arresting officer was an old vet and not some nervous rookie afraid of his own shadow. Now his appreciation for the black cop’s seniority turned to an even more comforting respect for Clarton’s street smarts and directness.

  “Yeah, Freddy, I do,” he said. “And just call me Joe.”

  The cop laughed. “Oh, Lord, this must be a good one, we gettin’ all buddy-buddy here. What you need, Joe?”

  Rizzo leaned closer to the man. “I read the arrest report and the rap sheet, Freddy. I know this guy Zumba is an asshole. And he ain’t a friend of mine.”

  “Okay,” the cop said with a nod.

  “So,” Rizzo continued. “This is the story. I owe a favor to the boss of the Angels. Over in Manhattan. The guy helped me with a runaway kid case, and it worked out good. This is his payback.”

  “What is?” Clarton asked, his eyes narrowing.

  Rizzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, you got this guy on a DWI, possession, assault-two, and resisting. I need you to shit-can the assault charge. It’s a D-felony. Drop it to obstructing governmental administration, an A-misdemeanor.”

  The cop frowned. “This shit is a pain in my ass. Only reason I’m even here is ’cause they got me workin’ with some kid thinks he’s gonna clean up Dodge City. This whole collar was his doin’, then he tells me he can’t book the guy ’cause he’s gotta baptize his sister’s kid this morning. Imagine that? When we first saw Zumba weavin’ his bike and pulled him over, I told the kid to ignore it, let the guy go, but no, the kid is all righteous, can’t let a drunk go with just a warning. See, the skell was only ’bout five blocks from his apartment. Shit, worst coulda happened was he wrecked and broke his own sorry neck. Damn fool out ridin’ a motorcycle on a cold night in November, served him right if he went down. But no, my partner wants us to lock the guy up.”

  Rizzo smiled. “Kids,” he said simply.

  Clarton nodded. “Yeah. Younger every day, seems like. Anyway, so then the Angel mouths off a little, next thing I know, the kid slaps him and the guy goes ape-shit, so we got to tune his ass up. Then we toss ’im and find the dope. Now you come askin’ me to drop the assault count. That really hangs me out if the guy starts bitchin’ ’bout the lump I put on his head. I need that assault charge to cover my own ass, Joe.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, well, I understand. But I’ll talk to the man in Manhattan. There won’t be any bitchin’ about you smackin’ this shit-head around. The resisting charge still stands, and with an added obstruction, that more than covers your use of force.”

  Clarton considered it. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s not like we broke his fuckin’ head or anything.”

  “Exactly,” said Rizzo. “What weight did the CPCS come in at?”

  Clarton shrugged. “Haven’t heard yet,” he said. “It was just a taste, a little coke. What he had left over from his party-hardy night.”

  “Probably his wake up,” Rizzo said.

  Clarton ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I hate to get into this kinda shit so late in the game. I don’t wanna be spendin’ my last few months with some I.A.D. or Civilian Review prick breakin’ my balls.”

  “No way,” Rizzo said emphatically. “You drop that assault-two, you’ll never hear nothin’ from this guy again. He tries to fuck this deal up, I go to his boss. Zumba gets thrown in the fuckin’ river. Believe me, it won’t be a problem. Let him pay his fines for the dope and DWI and take an A.C.D. or time-served on the two misdemeanors. Everybody’ll be happy.”

  Clarton nodded. “What do I get out of this, Joe? Your undyin’ gratitude?”

  Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, exactly. Although, I gotta tell ya, my good-lookin’ partner did offer to come along and shake her ass for you, but I told her no.”

  “I been awake for twenty-five hours straight,” Clarton said. “I’m too tired for any ass shakin’.” Now he shook his head, his small smile slowly fading. “Damn,” he said. “Me workin’ with a gung ho kid and you with a freakin’ female. They’re tryin’ to kill us, kill off all the old men.”

  Rizzo stood, extending his hand. “Well, not much time left for them to finish the job, Freddy. We’re both almost out the door.”

  They shook hands, Clarton standing to face him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” Then after a pause, added, “I’ll rewrite the report, shit-can the assault. When the A.D.A sees it and writes up the complaint, it won’t be there.”

  Now, still holding on to Rizzo’s hand, he leaned inward, his firm grasp pulling Rizzo slightly forward.

  “But if this Zumba character ever comes up complaining about the slappin’ I gave him, he better go in the fuckin’ river.”

  He paused, his eyes hardening a little. “Or I got to come looking for you, Joe. Then you got to make it right.”

  Rizzo nodded. “I hear you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT TWELVE NOON, Rizzo sat at his squad room desk, a roast beef hero in front of him. Priscilla sat next to the desk, her lunch sitting on the pull-out writing board above the side drawer.

  “So,” Rizzo said, chewing as he spoke. “How’d it go at the party last night? Anything come of it?”

  “Yeah, actually, something did,” Priscilla said. “I met Carlyle’s agent, a woman named Robin Miller. She’s pretty well known in the publishing world.”

  “What’d she have to say?”

  Rizzo saw animation come into Priscilla’s eyes as she answered. “Carlyle had given her some of my stuff. A couple a my short stories and the first few chapters of a book I’ve been fooling around with. Miller liked it. She said she had some ideas she thought I should hear. Then she gave me her card and told me to call her on Monday. I gotta tell you, Joe, as much as I didn’t want to go to that party, I’m glad as hell I did.”

  “Good,” Rizzo said. “Sounds good. You may be on your way, kiddo.”

  “Funny, though. For a party, it was kinda somber. Seems like everyone there knew that guy Mallard, the playwright that got murdered. Once they found out I was a cop, everybody was asking me questions. They figured I had some inside info on who the killer might be.”

  “Did you tell them it’s not the only case in town?” Rizzo asked.

  “Yeah, in a way. But they were pretty shook up about it and wouldn’t let it go. The guy was like a god to them.”

  Rizzo pursed his lips. “I’ll bet if the cops ever do collar the guy that killed Mallard, all your new pals’ liberal bullshit pity for the bad guy will go right out the fuckin’ window. This is different, seein’ as how it was one of them got killed. If it was just some dumb-ass street cop, they’d be out raisin’ defense money for the perp.”

  “Relax, Joe. Don’t go there.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m glad you made a connection. That’s gotta help. But now, let’s talk some business.”

  “Okay, boss, I’m listening.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Rizzo said. “After we eat, we take a ride over to Seventeenth Avenue, to the Rebels’ hangout. We talk to the leader, kid named Costanzo Intrafiore. He’s about nineteen, and word is he’ll be movin’ up the ladder to the Bath Beach Boys soon. Next stop after that is soldier
ing for one of Louie Quattropa’s captains. See, Zee-Boy—that’s what they call Costanzo—he’s a real hard case. Genuine tough guy, not like some of the other Rebels. They’re posers, some of ’em, two-bit punks playin’ gangster. But Zee-Boy, he’s the real deal.”

  Priscilla sipped at her bottled water. “You know the kid?” she asked. “Personally?”

  “Oh, yeah, I know him okay. Matter a fact, we got sort of a special bond. See, he thinks I killed his uncle, and I think he’s an asshole. ’Bout twenty years ago, Zee-Boy’s uncle was runnin’ The Rebels. Guy’s name was Enzo. He was a hard case, too. If he’da lived, he woulda been a mob boss by now, maybe even Quattropa’s right hand. Guy had a lot of potential.”

  Priscilla smiled. “I take it he died young. Did he leave a good-looking corpse?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “Matter a fact, no. Actually, one of the ugliest I ever seen. See, I was workin’ patrol back then, in the Seven-Six. One night, about five, five-thirty in the mornin’, we get a radio call. Blue Caddy, plate so and so, just stolen, vicinity Blippety-blip Street. Well, guess what? I’m at the wheel, sittin’ at a red light on Court Street, and the friggin’ Caddy comes up President and turns onto Court, right in front of us.”

  “It’s good to get lucky sometimes,” Priscilla said.

  “Yeah. So I hit the lights and go after him. Guy speeds up, he’s gonna run. So we chase. Fuckin’ guy is doing damn near ninety, right on Court Street. I figure he’s gonna blow a light, broadside some citizen comin’ home from his night shift, and kill the poor schmuck. So I shut the lights, back off, break pursuit. My partner’s calling in the location and direction of the Caddy, all by the book.”

  Rizzo took the last bite of his sandwich and began crumbling the wrapper as he went on. “So the Caddy never slows down, I never seen his brake lights come on, not even flicker. By now, he’s doing about a hundred, at least. A garbage truck comes up a side street, catches the green light at the corner and makes a right turn, goin’ maybe ten, fifteen miles an hour, right in front of the Caddy. The car smashes right into the truck. Sounds like a fuckin’ bomb goin’ off. The hood of the Caddy goes under the back of the truck, and the garbage hopper tears the whole top off the Caddy, along with Enzo’s fuckin’ head. Paramedics found what was left of it under a Pontiac parked forty feet from the impact area.”